Magic Black
by NaniErin
Summary: No rest for the weary. AU, graphic descriptions.
1. Prologue, or If I only could…

Title: Magic Black: Prologue, or If I only could…

Author: NaniErin

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy

Rating: M (implied violence and graphic descriptions)

Theme music: Running Up That Hill by Placebo

Setting: AU, immediately after the final battle in Potter-verse

Disclaimer: Not my books, movies or money. My plot, though.

* * *

He blinked, swaying on his feet. The sound of his own panting was loud and harsh in his ears and his outstretched hand was trembling, but he didn't look away from the man that lay motionless on the ground before him. He stood there, unmoving, waiting for the man to stand up again – waiting for the man to speak or lift his arm. He waited, but nothing happened.

He blinked again and lowered his arm. In a distant corner of his mind, he started a mental tally of all his pains, sorting trivial twinges from threatening injuries and making note of which needed to be attended to and in what order. He still didn't allow his eyes to stray from the man that lay sprawled before him. He'd be getting up any moment now, he was sure of it.

A soft sound came from behind, the scuff of a boot dragged over flesh, and instinct took over. He spun, raised his wand, and spoke the first two syllables of some ancient phrase or other before he registered what he was seeing. A young man, red-headed, tall, and lanky, and a young lady, eyes wide and hair flying in every direction, stumbled to a sudden stop. They each held a wand. That meant they were threats. His voice trailed off, though, and he frowned. There was something in him that didn't want to hurt these two. That didn't make any sense. He clenched his jaw and refused to lower his hand. They stood motionless, eyes cautious yet hopeful, while he struggled to remember why he wasn't attacking them. His thoughts were moving so slowly.

The girl's gaze moved from him to something behind him and a hopeful smile bloomed across her face. "Is he dead, Harry? Is it over?"

He flinched. Her voice was so loud in the silence.

The red-head's eyes were still wary. They flickered behind him, too, but only for a moment. This one was more observant, more dangerous. He shifted his wand to point more directly at the youth. The other boy raised his hands slowly, palms outward, and spoke in a low, clear voice. "It's okay, Harry. It's just us – just Ron and 'Mione. We're your friends, mate."

He frowned at them. What the youth said – the words sounded right, but the information didn't make any sense. He lowered his arm again, but remained guarded. He tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steady breath – in and out – willing his mind to work properly. After a brief mental struggle, he nodded. Yes, that was right – the boy was Ron and the girl was Hermione, they were his friends. Of course they were his friends. They were his best friends. They'd been by his side through everything – from their first run in with a troll to this, the final battle. He'd have been lost a hundred times over without these two. What was he thinking?

Harry opened his eyes and looked back at them. He didn't have the words to explain, but he did offer them a sheepish smile. They seemed to understand. Their faces lit up and they ran to him. They hugged him tight and clapped him on the back and shoulders, pressing on wounds and aggravating pain. He couldn't bring himself to care. He dropped his wand and clung to them, a handful of cloak in either fist. He didn't loosen his hold when they started to pull back. He needed the physical contact – needed to know that they were alive and whole, no missing parts among them. They didn't seem to mind. They stood close to him and each other, smiles stretching into grins. Hermione had one hand resting on Harry's hip – her other hand was entangled with Ron's. Ron's free hand was on Harry's shoulder, alternating between solid pats and comforting squeezes. Maybe they needed the reassurance, too.

They were quick to find their voices again. He smiled when the questions started – some were directed at him and some at each other. He couldn't get his voice to work, so he nodded and shook his head as best he could. Their speech was becoming disjointed, though. Both were talking at the same time, answers and questions spilling out of their mouths faster and faster until neither were intelligible. He grinned as he tried to keep up with what they were saying. The grin turned into a chuckle, and the chuckle turned into outright laughter. He laughed until his sides ached and his knees went weak. Their words dissolved into laughter, too, and the three of them struggled to hold each other up. It didn't work for long. They tumbled to the ground together, a pile of giggles and gasping breaths.

Harry winced at the landing. There was a very sore spot on the left side of his lower back that something was digging into, now that he was on the ground. It damped his chuckling, but not his smile. He closed his eyes and listened to his friends calm and their breathing even out again. They were okay. His friends were alive and whole and not too badly damaged, if appearances could be trusted. They were okay. He was okay. It was over.

He blinked at that last thought and struggled to climb to his feet again. His limbs protested the sudden movements, a small burst of pain erupting from his lower back nearly had him back on the ground, but he clenched his jaw and shoved the distractions away. He had to see – he had to know. Was it true?

At first, all he could see was a man, just one – the one he had been fighting only minutes ago. The man was lying very still – hadn't moved from where he had landed, actually. He stumbled over to it and laid a hand on the nearest bit of bare flesh, only for a moment, before yanking it away. Cold – not the icy cold of the long dead, but not the proper warmth of the living, either.

Harry cocked his head to the side. Had this one ever been truly warm after… after the thing, though? He had been dead for a long time and then he was back, but not the right way. He never looked like he had before he died… maybe other things had changed, too? Harry didn't know, couldn't remember. Pulse – better to check for a pulse. He fumbled with the wrist of the man, and then the neck, but didn't feel any signs of life. No breath coming from the mouth or the nose, either.

Harry laughed. Dead. This one was dead. Voldemort. Voldemort was dead. The fight was over. Harry laughed again – the sound bubbled out of him. It really was over. The fight was over. The war was over. Voldemort was dead!

Harry jumped to his feet and spun around, oblivious to pain or injury. His friends were still in the jumbled heap they had landed in. The looked up at him expectantly. He wanted to shout or crow or cheer or do something else suitably theatric, but his voice wasn't working yet. He settled for another grin. He grinned and nodded his head and that was all Hermione needed. She let out a loud whoop of a sound and threw herself at Ron. She kissed him a dozen times and then hid her face in his shoulder to muffle her laughter. If her laughter began to sound like sobbing after a moment or two, Harry gave no indication that he heard. She had earned at least this much – all of them had. Ron looked dazed. He blinked and looked at the body, then back up to Harry again, asking a silent question. Harry understood. He nodded again. Ron nodded, too, and pulled Hermione closer. Harry looked away to give his friends a moment of privacy.

He looked away from them and his legs nearly gave out.

There were bodies… everywhere. The field was covered in them. Some wore black cloaks and some wore school robes, others only wore slacks and shirts. All of them were filthy – splattered with blood and smeared with dirt and filth. Not one bit of clean cloth as far as he could see, and he could see all the way to the tree line at the far end of the field and to the lake shore and the castle to either side. He recognized that the thoughts weren't appropriate, he knew that with so very many bodies littered about that he should be thinking something more solemn, but he couldn't help thinking that with so much dirty clothing, it would make for an awful lot of laundry to do.

Then, as if there were a switch to be flipped, Harry realized that he could do more than just see them. He could hear them, those injured and dying. He heard shouts and screams, but mostly there was moaning and crying. He heard several voices begging for water and at least one calling out for mother. He could smell them, too. The battle had started before dawn and had continued long into the afternoon. The sun hung hot and heavy in the sky, now, and the field that they had fought on, that they had spent the better part of the day spilling blood and innards and all manner of bodily fluids on, was thick and ripe with the smell of rot and warmed death.

Harry felt his stomach lurch.

No. Too much. There was too much – too much input. He shook his head. Too much pain and death and violence. He didn't want it anymore. He never wanted it. He didn't want to think about the dead. He didn't want to think about who they were or how many he would recognize if their faces were whole and their bodies in one piece. He didn't want to think about how many were dying still. He didn't want to think about anything. He didn't want to think.

He closed his eyes, but the images seemed to be burned onto the backs of his eyelids. And the sounds and the smells. He couldn't figure out how to turn off the sounds and the smells. He couldn't stop it. He needed to stop it.

A noise. Close. A threat.

Harry turned to face the new noise. His arm shot out and his mouth had started forming words before he recognized that something was wrong. His hand. He looked at his hand. His wand. It wasn't there. He didn't have his wand. His eyes moved from his empty hand to the source of the noise. Black robes. White mask streaked with red.

No. Bad. Enemy.

The threat was pointing a wand at his friends, at Ron and Hermione. They were distracted, still. They hadn't heard it, didn't see it. Words were being spoken from behind the mask, high pitched and hoarse. A woman? A youth? Not enough time to warn them. Not enough time to find his wand. Not enough time.

Everything happened in slow motion, then.

He lunged. His mouth warped into a snarl as he moved.

The threat saw him. The wand turned away from the two on the ground to point at him.

His friends saw and made sounds of protest. They began to reach for their wands. Too slow.

A sickly yellow light left the enemy's wand and connected with Harry's chest.

Harry collided with the enemy. He felt a sharp, piercing pain in his shoulder and heard the snap of wood breaking.

Harry felt the vicious satisfaction that came of neutralizing the enemy – he registered the relief that his friends really would be okay – and then there was pain.

Everything was pain.


	2. Chapter 1, or Rise and Shine

Title: Magic Black: Chapter One, or Rise and Shine

Author: NaniErin

Genre: Adventure, Sci-Fi

Rating: M (violence)

Theme music: 1940 (Amplive Remix) by The Submarines

Setting: AU, first ten minutes of Pitch Black

Disclaimer: Not my books, movies or money. My plot, though… ish.

* * *

_They say most of your brain shuts down in cryo-sleep._

_All but the primitive side… the animal side…_

_No wonder I'm still awake._

_Transporting me with civilians… sounded like forty, forty-plus._

_Heard an Arab voice… some hoodoo holy man, probably on his way to New Mecca._

_But what route… what route…_

_Smelled a woman._

_Sweat, boots, tool belt, leather. Prospector type._

_Free settlers… and they only take the back roads._

_And here's my real problem: Mr. Johns, blue-eyed devil, planning on taking me back to slam…_

_Only this time he picked a ghost lane._

_A long time between stops... _

_A long time for something to go wrong…_

Riddick was awake when things started going wrong.

He heard the whispers of the bits of rock passing through the hull of the old transport, too far off for him to tell if anything electric had been fried.

He listened to the confused voices of the only two crew members to leave their cryo-pods – voices that became panicked shouts as the alarms started blaring. His pod was far enough back that he wasn't able to catch scent of them. That was a disappointment.

He felt the increase in turbulence just moments before he noticed a rise in temperature. The smell of burning metal and scorched wiring reached him next, followed by the faint screech of metal being torn away.

He snorted. The ship was heading planet-side. He would have smirked if the bit had allowed for it. Luck sure was a fickle bitch.

He tested his bindings, tugging and pulling to feel out the weaknesses. He made note of what he found, but didn't move to take advantage of anything yet. If he survived the crash, he'd break free, but until then he might as well keep to the relative safety of the cryo-pod. Hell, he probably wouldn't even get as banged up as the other passengers, with as securely bound as he was.

Securely bound? He snorted again. Fucking Johns. If it hadn't been for that greedy son of a bitch, he wouldn't be in this position in the first place.

A heavy clunking sound interrupted his thoughts and, almost immediately, the angle of the ship changed. A dozen seconds later, the sound happened again, closer this time, and the angle change was more noticeable.

Fuck. He'd been unconscious when he was brought on, so he didn't have any feel for the layout of the transport or for how large it might be. He had assumed they were headed for dirt nose-first, but with the pilot purging weight they had to be falling ass-first. Not his favorite way to land a craft. Two compartments purged, but they still weren't level enough for a safe landing. How many more before the one he was in came up?

A hiss and a thump, barely audible over the sounds of turbulence, came from across the aisle and then there were traces of gunpowder and morphine in the air.

Speak of the devil. The fucker had picked one hell of a time to stretch his legs. Maybe Johns would do himself a favor and get himself killed in the crash. Had to be less painful than what Riddick had planned for him.

The whole ship gave a sudden, bone-shaking lurch and Riddick was thrown against his restraints. He felt the compartment shudder and jolt. He heard the deafening screech of metal ripping nearby, followed by an oppressive wave of heat. Then he heard a strangled yelp of surprise from Johns, and, seconds after that, the sound of flesh hitting metal and plexi at various points around the compartment. For half a moment, he thought that it was Johns being tossed around, but before the thought could fully register, a body collided with his pod – hard enough to shatter the plexi. It only took one whiff to know that this wasn't Johns.

A hand reached into the pod, scrambling for purchase, scratching his shoulder several times, some deep enough to draw blood, before getting a solid grip on his arm. Riddick heard grunting and panting. He scented the air. A young man – a boy, maybe – bleeding and riding high on adrenaline, not anyone he had run into before. There was confusion, and maybe a little fear, in the air as well, but above all that was the smell of green. Everything else would've pointed to a passenger that'd been thrown free of his pod, or maybe a stowaway knocked out of hiding by the crash, but there wasn't any way that someone could've been in space for that long and still smell like anything green and growing.

There was a gasp and a groan from the kid, along with sounds that indicated he was struggling to hold on. The grip on Riddick's arm tightened enough that there might be bruising later, but Riddick ignored it. He turned his face so that he was as close to the boy's arm as the restraints allowed and inhaled again. Burnt flesh, sweat, fatigue, and something else – not anything he could identify, but something spicy. It irritated his nose, like pepper.

The passenger's compartment was beginning to slow when the kid released his grip. Riddick heard him fall to the grating, but didn't hear him move away. Interesting. With swift, deliberate movements, Riddick braced his feet and tore loose the bindings that held him in the pod. It made more noise than he would've liked, but once he had the shackles off, the other passengers wouldn't be a problem. He reached for the emergency release lever, gave a sharp tug, and welcomed the soft hiss of the plexi door opening.

Riddick paused before leaving the pod, listening. He heard harsh breathing, a pounding heart, and the sound of cloth rustling from the boy. He heard debris settling throughout the compartment, but nothing indicating anyone else was moving around yet. Morphine and gunpowder still hung in the air, but the closest heartbeat, besides the kid, was too slow to be conscious. Fucking Johns – more lives than a goddamn cockroach. Stretching out his senses, Riddick picked up the sounds and scents of nine other survivors, along with a handful that were in the middle of dying. The temperature inside the ship was already increasing, by slow increments, but enough to tell that it was going to be miserable hot outside. Lovely.

Satisfied with what he'd found, he dropped out of the cryo-pod and waited to see what the kid's reaction would be. The boy's heart rate and breathing had been slowing before he moved, but, now that Riddick had come closer, his pulse was picking up speed again. No hint of arousal on the air and the scent of confusion lingered, but the fear was fading. The kid still smelled of exhaustion and green, though, and of that strange spice. Curious. Riddick took a step closer to him. The boy's heart was beating even faster now, and the hints of confusion Riddick was picking up became stronger, but the kid held his ground and his tongue. Not the talkative sort, then. That suited Riddick just fine.

Amused, Riddick turned his attention back to ridding himself of his remaining restraints. First to come off was the bit. He slid the device over his head and let it fall to the ground with a loud clang while he worked the ache out of his jaw. The kid startled at the noise and, because he was finally able to, Riddick smirked. The boy huffed at him and his smirk grew. Next – the blindfold. He slid it up, just a bit, and chanced a glance around the room, before realizing that it was too bright in here for him to see. He clenched his jaw against the pain that lanced through his skull and let the blindfold fall over his eyes again.

The boy took a step closer, his heart rate spiking again, and smelled faintly of fear. Riddick didn't pick up on any new threats, but he did hear the kid raise his arm.

"Watch yourself," Riddick rumbled. "I've been known to bite."

The kid huffed again, but his pulse slowed down a touch and he lowered his arm. Still wasn't talking, though.

Riddick mulled the information over. The boy seemed to be curious enough to hang around and smart enough to take a warning for what it was. Might be useful to keep around, assuming he could keep up.

"Light's a bit bright in here. Think you can find somewhere darker, out of the way?"

There was a moment of silence, followed by a grunt, and the kid was moving away.

From the first footstep, Riddick picked up that the boy was injured. The kid wasn't making any actual sound, but his breathing had become a bit harsher again and the smell of pain was increasing the further they went. Despite this, the boy moved quietly –quiet enough that Riddick almost didn't pick up on his limp. His movements were slow and deliberate, but whether he was being mindful of Riddick's blind and shackled state or favoring his injuries was difficult to tell.

The kid came to a stop, interrupting Riddick's thoughts. The boy was silent a moment or two, then tapped his foot against the grating two or three times and grunted. The next sound the kid made was a pained hiss as he landed on the deck below with a thump. The hiss wasn't loud and didn't last very long, but it took the boy some time to catch his breath enough to move again. Riddick frowned. The kid was more injured than he first thought. From the sound of it, though, this wasn't his first time dealing with pain. Riddick took two more steps and dropped down to the lower level as well. He waited until he heard the boy walking again, and followed.

It wasn't too much longer before the kid stopped and grunted again. The room felt cooler and very few of the sounds from above were filtering through. Cautious, Riddick lifted the blindfold again. He winced. There was still more light than he cared for, but it wasn't as bright here as it was above and the shadows were deeper. He scanned their surroundings – nothing to see but piles of loose ship parts and the occasional sparking wire. Water was moving over metal somewhere nearby, but not in this room. The spot they were standing in was hidden from the view of anyone who dropped down to this level, at least initially, and looked to have at least two escape routes. Looked like a nice spot.

Riddick turned back to the kid. The boy stood at somewhere around 165cm and looked a bit thin, but it was hard to tell with the way his clothing hung on him. His skin was pale, his hair dark and unkempt, and he held himself with the air of someone who had been on the run for a while – resting, but not relaxed, and alert for any signs of danger. His clothing was ragged and torn – some from running, maybe, but there were patches that were burnt and holes that had to have been put there by blades or claws. What was left was oversized and filthy. He wore glasses, which, by some manner of luck, were still in place. Left lens was cracked. Hard to place his age. From his height and build, Riddick would've said the kid had somewhere close to 15 or 16 years on him. The way the boy carried himself, how aware he was of his surroundings and his ability to find a choice spot like this, spoke of a hard life. Of course, a person didn't have to live long to have that sort of experience. His eyes, though, were, by far, the most interesting part about him. They glowed, as if lit from behind – almost as bright as the sparks the loose wiring was throwing off, except that they weren't painful to look at.

The kid stood still while Riddick looked him over, his glowing eyes alternating between flitting over the criminal's form and scanning the compartment they rested in. His pulse had slowed quite a bit, as had his breathing. All sorts of fascinating.

"You know who I am, boy?"

The kid's eyes flew to Riddick's and the corners of his mouth turned up. He shook his head.

Introductions didn't really matter at the moment, he'd just been curious. "You know how to pick a lock?"

The boy blinked and reached behind him with his right hand, a gesture that seemed more habit than deliberate thought. He frowned when he didn't find what he was looking for and looked down at himself. When he looked up again, he was chewing on his lower lip and looked concerned. He shook his head.

"You wanna learn?"

The corner of the kid's mouth tugged upward again and he stood up a bit straighter. He nodded.

Riddick felt the corners of his mouth twitch. The boy seemed eager to please. That could come in real handy. He described what to look for and the boy took to searching their surroundings for something suitable.

Riddick watched the kid move, mentally ticking off injuries: the left shoulder – something recent, still bleeding; the right ankle – probably a sprain; the lower back – also recent, but not bleeding as much as the shoulder. Probably more, hiding under that mess of rags.

Was the boy a local? The injuries would make sense if there was some sort of war or conflict going on. He hadn't heard any sounds of fighting when he was on the upper level, but he knew that that didn't have to mean anything. The smell would fit, too, if the kid was a local. Having a guide to a water source on a planet as hot as this one promised to be would be priceless. He ignored the logistics of how the boy came to be bouncing around the passenger's compartment of a crashing transport ship, for now.

The kid came back with half a dozen bits of wire and metal, any of which might be useful for picking a lock, and offered them to the criminal.

Riddick chose one, grunted his thanks, and set to work. The wrist cuffs came off first. It took a bit longer than he'd like, but the lock was at a funny angle on this model. Johns was getting smarter. He snorted at the thought.

As he worked, he heard the other passengers beginning to move around above. Voices called out to each other and, on occasion, answered. He needed to get pick up the pace.

He passed the restraints off to the boy and glanced at him, briefly, to see how he was doing. The kid was scanning the room again, head cocked to one side. The boy took the cuffs with his right hand without looking, and turned his head a fraction to the right. Riddick had been about to start on the shackles at his ankles when the movement caught his eye. He followed the kid's line of sight, but didn't see anything.

The shackles were almost off when the boy reached out, stopping just short of touching Riddick's shoulder. Riddick grunted softly, but didn't stop what he was doing. Johns was getting closer. Riddick was familiar enough with his scent and heartbeat that he'd been able to tell when the bastard had woken up. He was a bit impressed that the kid had picked up on John's movements as early as he did. Sharper senses than most.

The sound of the shackles falling to the floor was masked by the thump Johns made jumping down to the lower level. The boy's vitals were picking up speed again, and the first traces of adrenaline were back in the air. The kid had crouched down, watching Johns while trying to stay hidden. Had to be hell on his ankle. The boy was tense, mouth pressed in a firm line, jaw clenched. His eyes were scanning their surroundings. Was he looking for weapons or escape routes? Occasionally, the kid would glance back to Riddick, like he was looking for direction or instruction. Riddick ignored him for the moment.

Johns was stepping further into the room, now. His movements were slow and cautious, but his breathing was calm. The familiar smell of morphine and gunpowder, though faint, was laced with a trace of fresh blood. Johns moved his head to one side and the light from above caught on fluid leaking from his right ear. Riddick smirked. Billy-boy must've busted an eardrum. He didn't seem too concerned with the idea that Riddick was out of his pod, though. Might mean either he wasn't expecting Riddick to be able to get out of his chains or he might be preoccupied with finding his shot-gun shells. Either way could mean he was getting a bit sloppy. Hard to tell with Johns, though.

A quick scan of his surroundings and Riddick was able to find a jagged bit of metal that fit nicely in his hand. He'd have preferred something with a smoother edge, but this would do. He glanced at the boy again and was surprised to find the kid meeting his gaze. Riddick motioned for the boy to stay where he was and to keep quiet. The kid wore a curious look, but nodded and took a step or two toward some of the deeper shadows.

Riddick turned back to his prey. Johns was distracted, bending down to the floor for something. There wouldn't be a better opportunity.

Riddick took two quick strides and lunged for Johns. He saw the mercenary's hand close around the grip of a pistol the moment before he collided with the bastard. Fuck. He'd have to make this quick.

Riddick planted his makeshift weapon in Johns' side and let his momentum take the both of them to the floor. Johns yelped in surprise, but rolled with the grapple. They struggled for a few moments, but Riddick was able to pin Johns' right arm to the grating. This left Johns' left arm free to grab the collapsible baton the fuck liked to carry with him and the little shit wasted no time in introducing it, repeatedly, to any part of Riddick he could reach. This left Riddick with a choice: take a beating and keep the mercenary's gun arm pinned, or let up on the gun arm to stop the beating. Riddick grunted with the impact of another blow from the baton. Maybe there was a third choice.

Keeping as much of his weight on Johns' right arm as he could, he pulled his shiv free from the bastard's side. Johns' barked with the pain and managed to wrench his gun arm free just long enough to fire the pistol in Riddick's direction.

Ears ringing, Riddick had just enough time to realize that he hadn't been hit, before everything went black.


End file.
